


I Wanna Do Bad Things To You

by How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101



Series: Prickle [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha!Logan, Beta!Scott, Canon? What Canon?, Copious Amounts Of Swearing, Jean is a good bro, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Scott Is Not A Boy Scout, a/b/o dynamics, artistic license at work here, buckets of pheremones, canon curled up and died here, idk - Freeform, important notes in the beginning, scogan - Freeform, sis? - Freeform, snark; epic amounts of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:46:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101/pseuds/How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101
Summary: Scott is very much happy with his life. Sure, he's actively repressing everything that might put a damper on his iron-clad self-control, but he works with what he has. And then one of Charles' pity cases walks through the door and threatens to shatter all of Scott's hard-won restraint. Worst of all, the stranger is rude, crass, flirts with everyone at the school, and manages to get on Scott's every last nerve and get under his skin. Now, Scott's got an itch he can't scratch and someone he wants to scratch it with. If only he didn't cling to repression like a baby koala bear. If only Logan wasn't a cigar-smoking, booze-drinking, rough-and-tumble, motorcycle-stealing, rugged, swearing, Alpha who's the epitome of bad choices. But, well, Scott works with what he had.





	1. Hate To Love You, Love To Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> Things you should know before reading this; I completely mess with canon. Seriously. I’ve never read the comics and saw the movies a while ago. This is mainly movieverse with A/B/O dynamics. Wolverine and Rogue never met. Logan only knows about the school because Charles spoke to him offering to try to restore his memories when he was picking up Jean. Scott and Jean aren’t in a relationship. UST galore with a heaping helping of Scogan. Pretty much everyone’s OOC. You have been warned. 
> 
> Things to know about this A/B/O universe;  
> Packs are the lifeblood of society, and can be as large or as small as is wanted. The leader of a pack is called an Alpha regardless of their secondary gender (i.e. Alpha, Beta, Omega). Their second-in-command is called a Beta, again regardless of secondary gender. Everyone else in the pack has a fluid and undetermined order. Any additions to the pack, especially ones that could destabilize the hierarchy, is usually treated as a threat until proven otherwise and the Loner settles in. Only children are allowed to join freely.  
> Body language and scent is largely important; everyone can tell genders apart based on scent, and body language is used to show submission to a pack’s Alpha or in mating. Necks are the most common avenues of communication this way, as it is the center of scent and a very vulnerable body part.  
> Society is fairly loose when it comes to coupling, as anyone can procreate with anyone else, even higher-level Alphas.  
> There are different levels in each secondary gender; in Alphas and Omegas, the higher the level, the rarer, the more potent the scent, and the easier it is to demand submission. In Betas, higher levels mean that they are biologically closer to Alphas; lower levels mean they are closer to Omegas.

 

 

 

There’s a prickle at the back of Scott’s neck that itches at him, makes him half-crazy because it’s not his hair or a tag at the back of his shirt, but it’s still _there_ in a phantom sensation that tugs at his thoughts. It’s been there all day, but Jean looked at him like he was insane when he told her, and even after she poked around in his head and told him it was nothing but his imagination, he can still feel it.

 

It doesn’t make sense, at least, not until the most Alpha guy he’s ever seen walks through the door and automatically takes over the room in a rush of pheromones and attention-drawing scent that wafts in from the force of the door slamming. He can smell salt, beer, smoke – everything that sends his hindbrain into overdrive. Alpha pheromones, much like the other ones, don’t have a specific smell to them; this scent is just waves of _here, I’m here, leader of the pack_.

 

Next to him, Jean sits up straighter, and he can see her nose flaring and eyes widening. On his other side, Bobby whispers, “Holy fucking hell” and Jean nods slowly in agreement. Scott wants to do the same, but he clamps hard on his swooning hormones. Holy fucking hell indeed. If he’s affected so much by the man, him, a low-level Beta, he can’t imagine what the poor Omegas are going through. The itch at his nape intensifies, the little hairs standing up at wary attention, then goes back to manageable levels, thankfully. He still rubs a hand over the spot, though, after the man’s gaze sweeps over the room, over him.

 

“Ah, Logan. Welcome. I knew that you would join us eventually.” The professor says, ignoring the fact that the room’s gone silent and the man – Logan – is tense enough to snap in two.

 

“Yeah, well, that made one of us, bub. I’ve been scoutin’ out this place for a bit, and I gotta ask what made you think it’d be a good idea to mix me in with a buncha school kids.” The man’s voice is rough, a growl swimming in the undercurrents – low and deep like a slow-moving, rumbling earthquake.

 

“There is no danger here, Logan, and certainly none because of you. Perhaps you should take a seat, and I will speak with you after this meeting concludes.” Charles’ tone is warm, treating the stranger like an esteemed guest rather than an intruder who just barged in unexpectedly.

 

There’s a brush of mental attention from the professor that makes his suspicion subside a bit. The stranger scowls, but after more silence than Scott is comfortable with, he sprawls out as much as the dwarfed chair will allow. The stranger is silent, a brooding, unforgettable presence in the corner; Scott and what he thinks is half the room keeps an eye on him.

 

They finish discussing how to handle the new student, a girl they picked up from Sabretooth and Associates a few days prior, and Scott can barely focus on the flow of conversation, his hindbrain dead set on evaluating the newcomer. Before he leaves in the shuffle of people leaving, he takes a glance at the stranger. Unmoving, authoritative, Alpha. He has to shake off the automatic sneer that fights to make itself known. He doesn’t know if the Beta inside him is making a show of dominance, or if it’s scared of its willingness to bend.

 

 

\----------

 

 

“Gambit.”

 

The Cajun looks up lazily from the strange French movie playing. “Yes, O fearless leader?”

 

“What’s the deal with the new guy?”

 

Gambit blinks innocently, but the self-satisfied smirk gives him away. “Who says I know anything?”

 

“Come off it. You’ve got your fingers in so many pies your toes have started in on it too.”

 

The smirk deepens. “Such a high opinion of Remy.” Scott’s unimpressed, ruby stare works wonders for little effort.

 

“Fine. Okay. I know a little bit.” He props himself up on his elbow and holds his index finger and thumb a centimeter apart for emphasis. “Guy’s named Logan. Apparently, Prof came across him years ago and offered to help out the guy. Don’t know why he’s here now. Part of his mutation is super-fast healing. Could be plenty of fun if it works the way I hope.” And there’s the eyebrow waggle. Typical.

 

“Was that so hard?” Immediately, Scott regrets his word choice when the other eyebrow rises to meet the first. “Never mind. Go take a cold shower, Remy.”

 

“Va te faire foutre.” Gambit says cheerfully, going back to his movie.

 

“Keep your ears close to the ground. Come to me if there’s anything suspicious.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

After that _illuminating_ conversation with Gambit, Scott looks harder at the school’s new ghost. The man – Logan – refused a room at the school, and as far as he can tell, is roughing it in the surrounding woods. He almost never comes inside, and when he does, it’s only to talk to Charles. A few of the students are making bets on whether or not he actually exists, or if he’s an urban legend recently sprung to life. Scott tried to tail him a few times, but that led to chasing shadows and trees with their bark shredded. It’s clear to Scott that he’s a risk, an unknown variable, but when he mentions this to Storm, she shakes her head at him. Of course, Storm has always been a touch more feral than everyone else, so it stands to reason that she’d be more accepting of someone who looks and acts like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Jean, when he asks her to rummage around a bit, frowns at him and reminds him that the professor vouched for him. Almost everyone thinks Scott’s wariness is insane, and he wants to snarl at the Alpha pheromones have addled all their brains.

 

It’s when the newest student, Rogue, comes to the stranger’s defense, that surprises him the most.

 

“You need to stop raggin’ on Logan all the time.” She says to him, out-of-the-blue when he’s grading papers in his office.

 

“Logan? You’re on a first-name basis with him?”

 

She flushes a little, and tugs at her white forelock. “Yeah.” She rallies. “But that’s not the point!”

 

She almost pokes his chest, but snatches her hand back with a pained frown. “He’s nice! And you keep grumblin’ to anyone who will listen that he’s a spy, or a Brother, or somethin’ horrible! People listen to you, and you’ve been sproutin’ nothin’ but gossip and insults.”

 

He sets down his pen as one does with serious conversations. “We know nothing about him. He could be a deranged murder recently escaped from a mental hospital.”

 

“Have you heard about any recent murderous escapees lately?”

 

No, but he’s not about to concede. “Why are you defending him? Just how well do you know him?”

 

“I talk to him!” Her jaw is set stubbornly.

 

“Just like that?” He can’t help the incredulous edge that slips out from under his control.

 

“Just like that. I ran into him in the hallways when I was late for a class. I accidentally touched his arm, and he keeled over like a sack of potatoes. And I saw his memories. He’s been hurt a lot, he’s alone, and he wants answers. And when I started cryin’ and apologizin’, he said there was no need to. He touched my gloves. No one does that after …” She breaks off, faltering.

 

She blinks heavily, gulps, and gathers herself together. “Well, I just thought I should tell you to lay off him a bit. He seems like a good person and a good person doesn’t deserve to be questioned at every turn.”

 

“… I’ll think about it.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

He tries not to think about it, he really does, but then his careful machinations fell apart when faceless soldiers stormed the school. There had been no warning, no alarms, no _thwip-thwip_ of helicopter rotors. There was a silent, normal night, and then there was a kid’s scream splitting the air. He had stumbled from bed, panicked and adrenaline-rushed, certain he would have to count the bodies before the night was out; he was right, but it wasn’t children’s corpses he’d have to number.

 

Scott’s room was on the ground floor, the closest to the main entrance, so he was the first one to respond. He’d seen the boy – _Bryce, six years old, able to change his hair color_ – being pulled along by a guy in riot gear. Hesitating, he had raised a hand to his visor, but didn’t take the shot yet, too scared of hitting the boy. He didn’t need to.

 

Barely a second later, there was a feral snarl, utterly animalistic and completely terrifying. It reminded him of times when Hank had a bad day; not as feline as Hank, but more … _more_. His hindbrain had kicked in and frozen him to the spot like a baby rabbit hearing the cry of a hawk. Before he could break out of his weak impulses, the snarl cut off and was replaced with the rasping rattles of a dead man, apparently induced by the three metal claws that found themselves sticking out of the soldier’s chest. And there was the son-of-a-bitch, blood-splattered and radiating angry pheromones like he was a strobe light of pissed-off Alpha. The bastard had crouched down and soothed the sobbing kid, rubbing circles into the shuddering back wiping away tears like a natural. Of course, he had to be perfect at the one thing Scott was talentless at.

 

He didn’t realize that the stranger knew he was there until a gruff voice spoke up. “That’s the last of ‘em, Slim. I already got the rest.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

A shrug. “Don’t know your name.”

 

He ground his teeth. _Oh, yeah. Embarrassing_. “Scott.”

 

“Nice to meet you. Slim.” A flash of teeth and what Jean showed him to be goldenish eyes.

 

Yep. Bastard all right. And to top it off, a deadly and useful one. _Fuck_.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Remy doesn’t have a French accent. Accents are hard. If you want, you can imagine he does. Also, Remy, you little shit, stop trying to be Moriarty.
> 
> P.S Thank you to morgan96 for that helpful correction on my French!


	2. You're Rubbing Me Wrong

 

 

 

“Why, Charles?”

 

The professor sighed, remarkably patient even though Scott had just burst in without warning. “Why what, Scott?”

 

“Why did you put _him_ on my team?” The Beta in him was pacing in ever-tightening circles, torn between enjoying the opportunity to bask in the presence of a powerful Alpha, and resenting the power-struggle sure to come.

 

“He could be a valuable asset. He knows how to fight, and to fight well. If you are worrying about his motivations, I can assure you that he has no more love for Stryker or the Brotherhood as you do.”

 

Scott grits his teeth. “That may be, may, but what about the hierarchy? What about the upheaval that adding a member will do to the team dynamics? It would be a nightmare!”

 

That gets him a penetrating look. “No more so than when Kurt was added.”

 

“Kurt’s different! He follows orders, he’s reliable, he’s –”

 

“A Beta?” That brings Scott up short. “Well, yes, but the entire situation is different.” He adds weakly, suddenly horribly aware that he’s acting childishly.

 

“Scott, you must trust that my actions are entirely for the benefit of this school as they have always been in the past and will be so in the future. I would not bring Logan into the fold if I did not have utmost confidence in his character.”

 

Unable to stop himself, he throws out an immature barb. “Is this because your Omega nature is overruling your reason for a high-level Alpha?”

 

“ _Scott_.” The very real anger is very much deserved.

 

“Sorry.” He lifts his chin up to bare his throat slightly for his pack leader, enough to convey apology.

 

“If you do not trust my judgement, then I would ask you to trust your own. Let him in on a few training sessions, talk to him before you make any decisions. I will not force him on any missions without your approval. But mark my words, Logan has the makings of a fine X-Man and I will not let you squander his abilities because of petty squabbles.”

 

Privately, he thinks it’s not a petty squabble, but he crushes that thought before the professor can pick up on it. “Fine. I’ll do a trial run. But if he can’t listen to me or if he hurts anyone, he’s off the team.” Scott also wonders if he’s just made a terrible mistake, promising that, but Charles’ approval washes away some of the mistrust. After all, Logan would probably mess up and then Scott would be able to kick him out without much fuss.

 

 

\----------

 

 

The first training session Scott lets him into, Logan goes off the rails, growls at direct orders, and manages to piss all over Scott’s wavering resolve to allow him a fair chance. When he says as much, he gets a middle finger as the dick walks away. That makes him want to have Kurt teleport him into the middle of an active volcano and switch the badly-hidden beer stashes with machine oil.

 

“If you’re going to be on my team, you’re going to have to follow my rules and work with your teammates.”

 

“I’m not much of a team-player, Slim. How ‘bout you factor that into yer precious rules?”

 

Scott’s seeing red and not because of his visor, but manages to keep his voice icy and calm in a way that’s patently infuriating. “Charles has faith in your ability to choke down your ego and make a difference, for once in your self-centered life. Are you saying that he’s wrong? Are you saying that you can’t handle a little group dynamics? Or are you just not brave enough to fight for our kind?”

 

The air immediately fills with Alpha pheromones specifically generated to force him to submit. The Beta in him quails, but the Scott in him remembers all the other Alphas he’s faced and forced into obedience. Being a team leader comes with challenges, especially for a Beta who can’t glare people into submission like an Alpha and can’t charm them like an Omega. He refuses to back away, or let his arms down from where they’re crossed on his chest, or tilt his head up – even as Logan stalks forward, growling.

 

“I ain’t no coward.” The claws are out, but Scott doesn’t flinch away.

 

“Then prove it.” That earns him a snarl and another beating of scent as the Alpha leaves in a huff.

 

The Beta in him can’t help but feel smug that he’d beaten down such a high-leveled Alpha with minimal fuss and no swung fists. The Scott in him can’t help but feel like this is going to be a difficult battle ahead.

 

 

\----------

 

 

It’s almost two weeks later, and they’re still snarling at each other. Two weeks, and then Scott realizes why he dislikes the bastard so much.

 

It happens after dinner. Bobby had accidentally frozen Storm’s glass, so she’d rained on his sandwich. He was still remembering the playful bickering when he went to the Danger Room for a practice bout. As it turned out, the room was occupied, though everyone knew his schedule by now.

 

And, of course, it had to be the Alpha in there. Scott had stood at the observation deck, watching. The man moved like a prowling animal, all grace and intimidation. Muscles rippled and claws ripped through targets like cobwebs. The man was danger personified, smooth and powerful and sleek and far too watchable. The man was panting harshly and sweating in the fitted uniform, his mouth open and snarling. It was a few minutes later that he realized he hadn’t kicked out the Alpha, and instead was staring like a besotted teenage Omega. He also realized that his Beta was rumbling hungrily and running warm under his skin.

 

_Oh, hell no._

 

Nope. Nu-uh. No. Just no. That was about the worst idea his Beta had come up with since the briefly lived crush on Mystique. And, worst of all, it made sense as to why Scott was so on edge around the Alpha. Goddamn gender dynamics.

 

But, his eyes still couldn’t stop tracking the motions of the Alpha, couldn’t stop admiring the gleam of metal claws. He shuddered, a little disgusted and a little turned on. When he realized _that_ , he shook himself and repressed the whole thing, tamping it deep down, _deep_ down, where he wouldn’t have to examine it too closely ever again.

 

Of course, Jean found it later and laughed at him.

 

“It’s perfectly natural, Scott.” She said. “I’m not immune to the call of an Alpha either.”

 

“Yeah, well, you’re an Omega. Besides, he’s –”

 

“Handsome. Muscular. Dangerous. Rough. Wild. _Canadian_.”

 

He blinks at her, momentarily sidetracked by what he hopes isn’t jealousy. “How do you know he’s Canadian?”

 

She shrugs, eyes dancing merrily at his discomfort. “I talk to him, something you should try sometime. He’s getting some memories back, and found out he’s from Canada. He flirts with me and I flirt back. It’s all in good fun.”

 

“He flirts with you?” Scott really tries not to sound possessive, but he’s too riled up about an Alpha sniffing around what’s his.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything. He flirts with everyone, even Charles. Rogue’s got a crush on him and he’s done nothing about either of us. Besides, Scott, I can flirt with anyone I want without your permission.”

 

“I know that!” Of course he does! He’s not a traditionalist who wants Omegas kept in the bedroom or kitchen.

 

“Do you? Because you’ve been acting like you’re clinging to stereotypes recently. You seem to dislike Logan just because he’s an Alpha, you thought that Charles only let him on the team because he’s a weak Omega, you just questioned my right to pick my mate, and you puff up around him like he’s trying to edge in on your territory when he’s really just joining the pack!” Her hair’s whipping around her head, and he imagines he sees the lights flicker. “You need to get your head out of your self-justifying ass before it gets stuck there or someone gets creative with superglue!”

 

She leaves him behind, slamming the door harshly. He plays with his glasses, wishing he could blast away parts of himself with red sweeps of light.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Jean/Scott here. They’re just besties who have a completely platonic mental link. Jean also has much more control over Phoenix. What happened at Alkali Lake stays at Alkali Lake.


	3. Hated Hating You

 

 

 

The next day, he stumbles from Charles’ office trying to shove memories back into their preordered, neat rows. Charles had said there was something there that would help him with this rivalry thing, so he’d agreed, if only to get his friend back. But once the professor chip, chip, chipped away at the walls, sections came tumbling down.

 

He crashes into a wall, barely manages to avoid falling down a stairway, pukes up his guts in an empty classroom, and clumsily runs away from the school like he could outrun his life. He ends up a mile away fighting down a panic attack and cursing his trembling limbs.

 

Stryker. Alkali Lake. It was Logan that got them all out of there. Strangely, he doesn’t feel any better. The lockboxes of his mind are emptying themselves, regurgitating their sludge and not caring about the mess left behind. Weak. He can’t lead the X-Men if he can’t lead himself. He’s nothing more than a blind kid fumbling around in the dark hoping that he miraculously flips a light switch. Maybe he should pull an Oedipus Rex and stab out his own eyes. Maybe he should try to find a mirror strong enough to bounce back the red until it melts his brain.

 

He’s stumbling around, trying to hold onto because he’s sure as hell not opening his eyes. His foot catches on what feels like a rabbit hole, and he pitches forward, only to be caught by steely-strong arms. The scent he missed before now crashes over him like the surface of a lake, and he curses, trying to extract himself.

 

“Hey, hold on, Slim. Don’t panic. You’re fine.”

 

 _No_ , he wants to shout. _I’m not fine and it’s not fine and it’s never going to be fine again_. But he doesn’t. What he does instead is breathe shakily and let his knees fold the way they’ve been wanting to. Logan lets them drift to the forest floor, still holding him like a goddamn child.

 

What he does is start up something he doesn’t really want to, but really, really does. “Stryker.” He grits out.

 

The arms tense. “Whatabout him?”

 

Scott laughs tonelessly, twisting his head to rest on his shoulder. “You were there.”

 

“I guess so.”

 

“How much did you see?” Control snaps apart like a badly-tied knot. “Did you see how we were all kept in cages like pets? How they kept me blind and shoved me around to keep me subdued? Hard to escape if you can’t fucking see the door.” He laughs again, hating that he can still see red behind his eyelids. “Did you see them transplanting my eyes to see if my mutation would work? Did you see a scared kid too scared of his own vision to even try to do something?”

 

“What I saw was a bunch of kids fighting to keep their heads above water. Nothing went on in there that was okay, and none of you gave them the okay.”

 

“Why were you there, anyway? Stryker pick up a friend? Or did you just decide to stroll in and play the hero?” Poke, poke, poke the bear.

 

“You’re not the only one Stryker fucked with.” There’s a growl and a shake that could’ve – should’ve – been harder. “I was s’posed to be Weapon X, Stryker’s golden ticket to military funding and mutant extinction. Gave me metal bones and enough torture to stop my heart. I escaped, and then there was a whole lotta killing. When I got sick of it, I went back for some more. Ended up with a bullet in my brain and a whole lotta empty space rattlin’ ‘round my head. You think Stryker took a lot from you? I lost the only people I cared about and then some. I lost my fuckin’ mind in more ways than one. But we’re both still here, still kickin’, There’s still stuff he hasn’t touched.”

 

Scott swallows. That’s the most he’s heard him speak at once. “Fucker.”

 

“Brat.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

“Dick.”

 

Strangely, Scott’s calmer than before. Still not opening his eyes, but settled down enough to chain down the filing cabinets and patch up the cracks. “What’s up with the Wolverine shtick?”

 

“Got claws and a nasty attitude. What’s up with the twenty questions shtick?”

 

“Same deal.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

Things are okay after that. Not great, but better. Charles apologizes for the unintentional mental fallout. Jean helps him put back together the pieces. Logan’s, well, Logan. Still smoking pungent cigars where he’s not supposed to, mucking up the local wildlife, teaching the students to skive off and rebel, and generally driving Scott out of his barely-held together mind. But, what insults they trade back and forth are more like banter than intended for actual harm. It’s like Logan finally noticed that Scott has claws of his own and is amused that he can use them.

 

The Alpha finally stakes out a room in the school. Scott tries very hard not to pinpoint where it is (top floor, the one farthest from the emergency exit, what does that say about him) and miserably fails. He shows up for meals, sometimes not eating but drinking cheap beer instead. Rogue is ecstatic, and takes to following him around, chatting off his ear while Bobby broadcasts his jealousy subtly. Scott smells him all over and it’s genuinely annoying. How did he get his scent on the staff-only lounge ceiling? It bugs him to no end. The scent even follows him up to the roof and into the garage.

 

And it’s in the garage when he gets cornered, under his bike and covered in splotches of grease and motor oil.

 

“Hey.”

 

He startles, bangs his head on the wrench he was holding, and promptly mentally swears enough to get a psychic jolt of amusement from Jean.

 

“Whatcha doin’ there, grease monkey?” And there’s more amusement from a different source.

 

“Working.” He says shortly, not bothering to get out from under his bike.

 

A booted foot knocks into his sneakers. And when that fails to gain a response, it happens again. And again.

 

“What?” He snaps, rolling far enough to convey his unimpressed expression.

 

“You’re tightening the screws too much. Give it ‘bout ten miles and something’ll shake its way off.”

 

Scott looks at what he’s doing and pinches his lips tightly. “Thanks. I’ve got it from here.”

 

“Sure ya do, Slim.” A chortle that irks the red out of his lenses.

 

“What do you want, Wolverine?” He makes sure to keep it professional and curt.

 

“I’ve been talkin’ to Chuck, and I’ve decided I want to teach a couple o’ classes ‘round here.”

 

Out of all the things that could’ve been said, it’s the one thing Scott wasn’t expecting. “Huh?”

 

Uncharacteristically, or maybe just a trick of the red-filtered light, Logan’s face darkens. It’s not a pretty blush, like Jean’s, that lightly dusts her cheekbones; Jean’s sent him enough mental pictures over the years for him to know. It’s a heavy blush, heavy enough for Scott to see it, one that blankets his entire face; it’s strangely endearing. Damnit.

 

“Uh, yeah. I was thinkin’ maybe some self-defense, maybe combat. Maybe a few survival ones. Heck, if my memory gets knocked into place, I could even teach history.”

 

“History? Why that?”

 

“The best me and Chuck can figure, I was born in the 1800s.”

 

“Oh.” That was also something unexpected. “And, uh, why are you here? Now, I mean, asking me about it? Charles is the one who handles teaching additions.”

 

“Well, since you’re so uptight that stick in yer ass is keeping your spine straight, I thought you’d wanna know ahead of time.” Logan’s smile is so shit-eating it’s a miracle his mouth isn’t stained brown; and fuck if it isn’t also endearing. _Shit. Stop thinking about mouths, Summers_.

 

“Screw you too, Logan.” Hoping his cheeks aren’t lighting up like the inside of his visors, he wheels back under the bike. Not an escape, very much not so, he still has his scraps of dignity.

 

“Eh. Maybe later.” The asshole disappears before Scott can formulate a proper response instead of the one his Beta throws onto his lips.

 

 

\----------

 

 

It only gets worse from there. Not in terms of their bitching at each other, but in terms of Scott’s control over his libido. He sees Logan at staff meetings, hanging around classrooms, in the staff lounge. His Beta is practically drooling all the time and he’s annoyed at his lack of control more than his reaction.

 

It also doesn’t help that the rest of the school has the same problem. Students sign up for the new classes in droves; some are there to actually learn, some are there just to get an eyeful and a noseful. Even implacable Storm flirts back a little when Logan tries his luck. Of course, she also manages to slam him with a lightning bolt after, just a small one, but still. Every time Scott sees someone glance at the Alpha with hearts in their eyes, he gets a jealous rush of possessiveness that leaves him breathless and reeling. He shouldn’t be feeling like this over someone he barely knows, who he doesn’t even like all that much, who could be gone the next morning just because. Hell, he doesn’t even know what Logan’s feelings towards him are. This whole situation is one that shouldn’t be happening.

 

It’s gotten so bad that Kurt, innocent, completely non-sexual Kurt, glances between the two of them like his gaze is a hunk of meat being fought over by two stray dogs. Storm thinks it’s hilarious, and of course she knows because she’s as watchful as a napping jungle cat. Bobby, grinning wildly, lets him know that a few of the students have cottoned on, and that there’s a betting pool being run by Gambit.

 

And then, Wolverine takes off. He steals Scott’s bike and sets off towards Alkali Lake in search of ghosts. At first, Scott is wildly relieved that the source of his tension has disappeared. But then he finds himself taking walks around the woods instead of doing a Danger Room practice session, hanging around the sanctioned smoking room on his breaks, opening beer bottles just for the smell. He’s moping around like a goddamn puppy and he hates it. Where’s his legendary control? The thought that it’s caput makes him find it again, shacked up with his bodily reactions, and drags it back inch by screaming inch until he’s able to glue it back to his intellect. He’s grimly satisfied with this ending; he’s in control, and there’s no cocky Alpha there to test his patience and the impenetrability of his skin.

 

So, of course, that’s when Logan crashes back into his life, bearing a small truck-worths of files; his bike is tied in the back of the truck, so thankfully he doesn’t have to shave Wolverine with his eyes.

 

“Thought these might be useful.” He says to Charles, offering Scott a glance-over and a wink before vanishing into the depths of the forest to ‘get reacquainted with the wildlife’.

 

Just like that, his heart is once again thumping out triplets and trying to break out from his chest to try for a doomed musical career. He doesn’t even like music. And he sternly does not wonder if Logan likes music or what kind he might. (Jean asks Rogue anyway, who asks Kitty since she’s most likely to be able to wriggle it out of Gambit, and it turns out that the answer is classic rock and, surprisingly, improvisational jazz.)

 

 

\----------

 

 

The files turn out to be a wealth of information, which Scott would know since Charles asked him to sift through the literal mountains of data. It makes sense; he’s the tactician with the near-eidetic memory, but that doesn’t mean he likes slogging through receipts from the cafeteria mixed in with sterile accounts of torture sessions.

 

It’s grueling work that he’s mostly ambivalent about, at least until he comes across a thick folder simply emblazoned with an X. At first, he thinks nothing of it; he flips it open and starts reading about subject 10, a mutant they tested on for a period of a few years. The reports are clinically sadistic, detailing the subject’s apparently renowned healing factor as they try to find the limits and what they do to break down the mind’s natural barriers. They also talk about harvesting DNA for other projects – clones, temporary injections, splicing it for a future weaponized mutant. It’s not until he finds, intermingled with the progress reports, a memo referring to the subject with a degree of familiarity and gets a name; Logan. Scott freezes’ part of him wants to stop reading, pack up everything he can find about Weapon X, and tell Charles to get Logan out from wherever he’s squirreled away. The other part of him keeps reading.

 

When he reaches a list of potential victims, the horror rises past where it was manageably writhing in his stomach and turns to bile at the back of his throat. _God_. Stryker had unspeakable things done to Wolverine, things that formulated him into a killing machine with no morals and no conscience. When the list takes a moment to estimate the number of possible child victims, Scott does exactly as he should have done from the start.

 

He doesn’t mean to wait outside Charles’ office, but every time he leaves, his feet tap tap tap their way back to the door. For hours, it’s suspiciously quiet, and then the door is flung open and a visibly unhinged and wild-eyed Wolverine rushes past him. Scott meets Charles’ gaze for a split second, _Go_ , and then races after.

 

Logan is more adept at hiding his trail than Scott had known, but he manages to track him down twenty minutes later wedged into the space between a log and a rock. His expression, Scott doesn’t know how to describe it. It’s strangely and utterly blank but in a way that’s familiar as breathing. A cocktail of self-loathing, anger, injustice, horror. It’s a melting pot of misery. Scott says nothing, but sets himself down out of the reach of claws. For a long time, he listens to the sounds of the forest – the shushing rushing sound of leaves, the patter of paws, the scratching of rabbits and mice – and he watches the helpless trembles slowly fade away.

 

“Motherfuckin’ Stryker.” Logan’s voice is hoarse, like he’s been shouting, even though Scott knows he hasn’t.

 

“Amen.”

 

There’s a dark laugh like the sound a crow would make on its dying breath. “My name’s James Howlett and I killed my father after he killed the man I thought was my dad. The real fuckin’ irony is that Logan’s _his_ name. I took a murderer’s name. And I have a half-brother. Not only is he still alive, but he goes by Sabretooth nowadays. Heard of him yet?” Another rusty, crow-food laugh.

 

“Me and him, we spent decades fightin’ other people’s wars. ‘Til he because less of an animal and more of a monster. When I wanted out, he knocked me out and took me to Stryker. They took away everything that made me human and stuffed me full of hate. Then they let me out and had me tag along with Stryker’s little band of merry mutants. Only when I regrew a conscience that time, they wiped me clean again and set me loose in Canada with a fake girlfriend and a fake set of memories. They faked her death to get me back under their thumb like a good little wandering puppy. Stryker had me on a string the whole time, watching me jerk and dance like a friggin’ marionette. The adamantium was just for the fuckin’ fun of it, and then when they were pleasantly surprised that I survived, they set up the brainwashers to tumble and dry. You know the rest. Death, more death, innocent death, and a virtuous mutant mutiny. Fuckin’ poetic.”

 

There’s a pause like Logan expects Scott to say something. “They fucked with my brain so much it’s no wonder Chuck has to navigate it like an effin’ cave-in. Stryker and an adamantium bullet was just the most recent of my delightful history with amnesia. Wonder if it’s just a matter of time before my mind just cracks open like an egg and I get to spend the rest of my long life happily gibbering on a hospital bed.”

 

“Nah.” Logan shoots a surprised glance at him. “You’d spent it grumpy and griping about the no-smoking sign.” It’s callous, and insensitive, and exactly what Logan needs right now.

 

Logan laughs; this time, it’s a healthier sound, like the crow’s only fatally sick and not dying. “You’re a right prissy jackass sometimes, aren’t ya, Slim?”

 

“And you’re the highest-grade asshole to ever grace the pack. Most of the time.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, repressed Scott. At least he doesn’t have to try his hand at actual comfort. Also, if Logan’s past is too confusing, I would be happy to edit this chapter, explain in a comment, or add a timeline to this author’s note.


	4. Turning Saints Into the Sea

 

 

 

“Say, what’s the deal with Storm? Everyone I’ve asked says something different. Is she a goddess, a queen, or a thief?”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“C’mon, Summers. Just curious, that’s all. Most important part of recon is the info-gatherin’.”

 

“Fine. She’s all three.”

 

“Hot damn!”

 

“…”

 

“You know I’m just yankin’ yer chain, right Slim? Slim?”

 

“What, Wolverine?”

 

“Ouch. Frosty. If I get you a beer would ya lighten up?”

 

“No.”

 

“What about a date?”

 

“…”

 

“Jeez, Slim. Stop tryin’ to take my head off without yer lasers.”

 

“You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”

 

“I can’t help it if you thought I wasn’t talkin’ about fruit.”

 

“Logan.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I thought Bobby was the Iceman, not you.”

 

“I will melt my own bike down and sell the scrap to Magneto just to spite you right now. Stop. Talking.”

 

“…”

 

“What about Jea-ah!”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh. Just a cute lil snippet featuring Logan trying to make Scott jealous (and succeeding), and Scott blasting Logan with his laser-focus!


	5. You Can Be My New Addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the song "Everybody Talks" by Neon Trees.

 

 

 

“What’s the dealio with all this ‘Alpha’ crap people keep natterin’ on about? I tried askin’ Hank, but he just spewed out all this science crap I couldn’t understand with a textbook.”

 

Scott blinks. _What?_ “You mean to say you don’t know?”

 

“Yeah. What’s an Alpha in human terms? In animals, I know I’m an Alpha ‘cause they either avoid me or follow me like I’m a frickin’ Messiah.”

 

“H-How do you not know? It’s what defines global culture.” Scott’s to shocked to be polite. It’s unheard of for someone not to know about pack dynamics and hierarchy.

 

“Yeah, well, just pretend I’m a century-old hermit with a bad temper and a long history of amnesia who’s been hiding out in the Canadian Rockies for a few decades. Can’t be too hard for you, Slim.”

 

“Um, oookay.” He’s a little thrown off; he’s never had to explain this to anyone before – it’s a given fact. It’s also a highly subjective subject and he has to rely on his schoolteacher mode to not stammer and babble his way through it. “Everyone has a primary gender and a secondary gender. The primary gender concerns whether a person is male or female. The secondary gender is more important, even if the name doesn’t suggest it. That one concerns one of three subsets – Alpha, Beta, Omega. We don’t know if it’s a leftover genetic holdover from more primitive times, or if it’s vestigial instincts left behind when humanity was more closely related to wolves or tigers.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Logan makes a noncommittal noise.

 

Scott shuffles, not nervously because he’s not nervous. “Going into conventional gender stereotypes, Alphas are generally the leaders of the pack, the ones in charge of decisions and such. Betas tend to be the foot-soldiers and working force. Omegas care for the young and oversee the next generation. Stereotypically, Alphas are just aggressive, possessive, and demanding; Betas are passive and unthreatening; Omegas are nothing more than simpering wombs.” Scott lets his disdain bleed through his voice.

 

“Personally, I think that’s a bunch of crap. People are whoever people want to be.” Logan sneers.

 

Scott has to bite his lip to stop a smile. “There’s also levels within the subsets. The higher one’s level, the more domineering the scent, at least for Alphas and Omegas. High-level Omegas have to deal with unwanted advances all the time. Alphas just get mean and territorial. Betas are different. The higher-levels are closer to Alphas, and the lower-levels are closer to Omegas.” He clears his throat, then continues. “The higher the level, the rarer they are to find. There’s about an even split between the numbers of the three genders, though.”

 

“And when you called me ‘the highest-grade asshole to ever grace the pack’? What did that mean?”

 

Scott has to look away from the other’s far-too inviting smirk. “You’re the highest-level Alpha to ever be in the school. The higher level you are, the harder it is to resist instincts. Everyone here wants to submit to you because of it, but nobody wants to because we’re not just our genders.”

 

There’s a long moment of uncomfortable silence before Logan breaks it with all the subtlety of Warren’s wings. “In the wild, it’s a lot different. I’m an Alpha there because I’m the biggest and baddest around.” He flashes a smile at Scott. “Humans get caught up in all this dumb pack stuff. Animals don’t have packs like that. They just know when to get the hell outta the way and when to treat a body with respect. People are complicated little fuckers, ain’t they?”

 

That drags an unwilling breath of laughter out of him. Logan catches it anyway and his eyes catch Scott’s for a second before Scot breaks it; eye contact is dangerous, especially with someone like Logan whose scent teeters on the edge between irritating and enthralling and is rapidly approaching rock bottom of one of those two (hint: it’s definitely not the first).

 

“What’s it like, to have your senses?” He blurts out the question before he knows it.

 

Logan glances at him a second, before turning back to watching the forest. For a second, Scott’s jealous of the array of shades of green he must be seeing; just because Scott’s evolved to pick out the same shades of red, doesn’t mean he doesn’t still miss color. “I dunno, really. Can’t tell what it’s like to not have it.”

 

When he senses that doesn’t answer the question, he sighs, picks apart a few blades of grass, and tries again. “I can tell that there’s a family of squirrels in an oak tree behind us about a hundred feet away. I can see a rabbit diggin’ out a warren about fifty feet over there.” He points West in a sloppy movement. “I can pick up a scent trail and track it down ‘cross-country. I can smell what a body’s thinkin’ and feelin’ from across the room when I want to. Now that I know, I guess Alphas smell bitter and cloying, kinda like the teenagers’ locker room after gym class mixed in with a healthy amount of sweat. Omegas smell sweet, too sweet, with sharper undertones, almost like oranges and vanilla, ‘cept not.”

 

He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly; Scott can’t help but wonder if he’s scenting him, and flagellates his brain for it. _Bad brain, **bad**._ “Betas, it varies. Sometimes clear like spring water, sometimes earthy like coffee or hazelnut. I ran into one once that smelled like canola oil, but I knew he was a Beta. Dunno how, but I always know.”

 

“Yeah, so do we. It’s something in the hindbrain that categorizes pack hierarchy.” Scott, carefully, very carefully, stems his impulse to ask what he smells like.

 

“Say, what’s up with the hierarchy? Is there, you know, behaviors and the like? Claiming, submission, the works?”

 

Scott’s breath catches at the word ‘claiming’ and hopes desperately that it doesn’t tell Logan anything. “There’s the Alpha at the head of a pack, but that’s just a title; anyone of any gender can be the Alpha. Here at the school, Charles is our Alpha, even though he’s a mid-level Omega. I’m his second, his Beta – don’t laugh, I know it’s redundant. In the X-Men, though, I’m the Alpha, the leader, and they’re directly under me, but still under Charles’ command. The students are last. We follow Charles in everything. He doesn’t ask for shows of loyalty and submission like some pack leaders do, but it’s still ingrained in our instincts to obey. Some upstart Alphas – gender, not the title – have a hard time following Charles or I, but I usually put them in their place; it’s up to me as Charles’ second to handle any threats towards his position.”

 

“And where do I fall in?” Did Logan get closer? It felt like he did.

 

“Well, since you’re so high-level, it’s hard for some of us to not follow you, even the other Alphas. But we’re all loyal enough to Charles to not want to form another pack with you. I would say that you’re a loner we’ve steadily been adopting into the pack, but your status isn’t confirmed yet. Most likely, you’ll be on the level of Storm and Jean once the pack settles down.”

 

“Hmm.” Scott can’t tell if the sound is disappointed, angry, or anything. “And like I asked earlier, what about claiming? I’ve heard about bonds and claiming, but not much.”

 

Scott can feel his heart trying to play professional jump rope, but the answers are tugged out of him anyway. “Uh, bonding. Ahem. Um, claiming happens through bites, generally on an area that can be seen by others. It’s supposed to happen only when two people decide to mate for life, but media’s made it almost romantic for claiming to happen before a relationship starts. It’s still not widely accepted, and it’s seen as improper and deviant. Bonding usually comes with the first claiming, and it’s when the biology of the two people change enough so that they only become … um, aroused by each other. It creates a permanent state of monogamy.” He carefully makes sure that he’s looking away from Logan and checks that his body is still under his control. Iron-clad control – _adamantium_ -clad control – oh shit, that’s not good that his thoughts went that way.

 

Another silence starts up, and Scott hopes that he’s explained well enough. Packs and genders are complicated enough for him, and he’s been navigating them for his whole life. He can’t imagine what it must be like to be thrown into the middle of it and being expected to know what’s up and what’s down.

 

“I know you’re a Beta, but what level are you?” At that, Scott can’t fight the blush that steals over his face, chasing away the pale and filling it in like with markers. It’s not that it’s private, but, well, it’s _Logan_ asking.

 

“I’m a low-level Beta. Almost an Omega, but I don’t get the heats.”

 

“Hmm. Thought I could smell it. Guess I can.” The blush deepens. “What about relationships? Between … genders?”

 

“Uh, well, Omegas are typically paired with Alphas, and levels call to levels. Of course, there are always exceptions and abnormalities, but it’s expected that Betas go with Betas and Alphas mate with Omegas. A high-level Alpha or Omega would be expected to find a high-level of the opposite gender.”

 

“What about primary genders?” Scott was finding it harder to breathe. Was there something in the air? Pollen, maybe? “That doesn’t matter as much. Since there’s a chance that even two Alphas can have biological kids, no one really cares about same-sex couples – uh, same-sex, both-gender couples. Um, we need better terminology. Er, I mean, two people with the same primary and secondary genders.” _Babbling, Scott, real smooth and not at all suspicious._

 

“You one to go with expectations, Cyke?”

 

“Erm, what?” Scott’s mind races as he tries to make sense of that innocuous question that sends alarm bells dinging in his brain and synapses snapping.

 

“Ah, nothin’. Be seein’ you later, Scott.” Logan rises to his feet and slips away remarkably silently before Scott can blink in confusion.

 

He also leaves Scott trying not to think of the way his name sounded from a person who normally refuses to say it, and trying desperately to control the way his body responded to it.

 

Scott buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.” Morbidly, he wonders just how much of this he’ll be able to take before he snaps in two like a toothpick.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Logan is about as subtle as a brick duct-taped to a clue-by-four to the face. Scott apparently ducked out of the way. Repression is one hell of an evasion technique, folks.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Bad Things" by Jace Everett.


End file.
